And you open the door and you step insideWe're inside our heartsNow imagine your pain as a white ball of healing lightThat's right . . . Your pain, the pain itself is a white ball of healing light

I don't think so

This is your lifeGood to the last dropIt doesn't get any better than thisThis is your life and its ending one minute at a time

This isn't a seminarThis isn't a weekend retreatWhere you are now you can't even imagine what the bottom will be likeOnly after disaster can we be resurrectedIt's only after you've lost everything you are free to do anything

Nothing is staticEverything is evolvingEverything is falling apart

You are not a beautiful and unique snowflakeYou are the same decaying organic matter as everything elseWe are all part of the same compost heapWe are the all singing all dancing crap of the world

You are not your bank accountYou are not the clothes you wearYou are not the contents of your walletYou are not your bowel cancerYou are not your grande latteYou are not the car you driveYou are not your fucking khakis

You have to give upYou have to realize that someday you will dieUntil you know thatYou are useless

I say, let me never be completeI say, may I never be contentI say, deliver me from Swedish furnitureI say, deliver me from clever artI say deliver me from clear skin and perfect teeth

I say you have to give upI say evolve, and let the chips fall as they may

Just a note to explain why all my old posts have been deleted and why I won't be blogging for a while.

A blogging policy came down from corporate and as a precautionary measure, I won't be blogging at all. It means I can't get myself in trouble for blogging. So for now...I'll be keeping my opinions on everything to myself.

While it's obvious that the woman in the foreground is reacting in sheer terror, what's the deal with guy in the background? At best, his expression is one of vague puzzlement . . ."Huh . . . as I left the house, covered in fire ants . . . did I remember to shut the lights off?"

My brother John, and me, atop Santanoni Peak in the Adirondack Mountains. We replaced the canisters atop many of the trail-less peaks as members of the Adirondack Forty-Sixers Mountain Club. My father crafted the canisters to replace broken or worn out ones. (At the time I completed my forty-sixth, I was one of the youngest ever, at 11 years old). Circa 1975.